


in search of a cure

by haetae



Series: wanderer from the steppe [9]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Action/Adventure, Attempt at Humor, Azim Steppe (Final Fantasy XIV), Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Medicine, Minor Original Character(s), Nonverbal Communication, Pirates, Pre-Canon, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22061479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haetae/pseuds/haetae
Summary: Isagi bends low to whisper to her captain.“Sir, do you think it’s a good idea to bring along, well, that?” She jerks her head in the direction of the weird Xaela hanging off the edge of the boat. “He doesn’t eventalk.”Kyouko rolls her eyes. Her subordinates aren’t known for subtlety, after all.“Well, he said he needs help. If he can scare off a few cocky Confederates with those fire tricks of his, I’m not gonna complain overmuch.”“Sir.”Kyouko takes another sip from her gourd of sake. “If he bothers you so much, then make him swab the deck.”or,At sixteen summers, Mongke of the Qestir defies tradition and leaves the Reunion in search of a cure for a young girl who has fallen sick.
Series: wanderer from the steppe [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1190056
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	1. the call

**Author's Note:**

> this has been stewing in my head for a while. i wanted to write about my wol's backstory—as a cute little adventure. it might be three chapters long, depending on how much i can actually. write. oh well. dfksjkjfd

When Mongke wakes that morning, the bustle of the markets is louder than usual. He doesn’t think too deeply of it as he rolls out of bed.

Mongke greets his parents with a loud yawn. His mother ruffles his hair as his father hums a greeting in return, then sets a plate of fried eggs and a bowl of beef stew in front of him. He devours both in minutes, not caring for Ma’s half-hearted, scolding looks or the barely contained guffaws from Baba.

After breakfast, he sees his parents off with hugs and kisses. Then he readies for the day himself by wrapping his chest and fixing his unruly hair into a short braid. He tugs on his robes and mask before peeking out.

People are hasty and tense outside, but there aren’t as many customers haggling merchants. Mongke frowns as he steps out. No one is looking at each other… that’s strange.

He decides to beeline straight for his mentor—maybe they’ll have a better idea what’s happening.

But when Mongke arrives, there is a weeping couple and a small crowd of friends comforting them. His hackles rise, and his stomach churns anxiously. He already feels off-balance as he enters the shaman’s ger.

Khenbish bursts out of nowhere and grabs Mongke by the shoulders. Before he can make heads or tails of the situation, his mentor steers him towards the back of the ger where curtains have been drawn. His chest tightens at the sight. If there’s anyone behind them, then something terrible has happened.

Khenbish draws back the curtains. Mongke is sure he stopped breathing.

A small body trembles in the pile of furs.

He is afraid to touch the body, in case he exacerbates the patient’s condition. But, Khenbish changes the cloth on their forehead with such ease that Mongke wonders how long the patient has been in here.

His heart aches when he catches a glimpse of soft, round cheeks. A child fell sick. All the worse.

He glances around the ger for the medicines, but Khenbish catches his eye and slowly shakes their head. Somehow, his heart sinks even lower than the ground. None of the cures available are working. They’ll have to outsource the medicine—but would the elders approve of such a thing? Masters of the markets the Qestir may be, but medicine makers they are not. They don’t like the idea of foreigners meddling in the sacred art of healing either.

Except, neither Khenbish nor Mongke are sure they’ll have the luxury of refusing such help.

Later, Mongke learns that the patient is a young girl named Enkhtuya. He has seen her flitting around the shaman’s ger once or twice, trying to get a peek of his mentor’s work. She fell sick after coming back from a hunting trip with her father. As far as initial inspections go, there aren’t any wounds that point to an infection. Her father didn’t see anything strange with her until they returned to the Reunion, when she fell unconscious earlier today. The usual cures for colds aren’t working either.

After all these facts, they aren’t any closer to a solution.

It’d be irresponsible if they tried other medicines in their current arsenal—there’s a chance one might poison her and worsen her condition. But they don’t have anything else that will work. Khenbish’s healing magicks can only do so much for the body, and Mongke can’t wield healing magicks at all without hurting himself. Purging the sickness is becoming a daunting task as more time passes, and the sickness steadily grows from her head to her shoulders and arms.

Enkhtuya’s scalp is hot to the touch, and her scales are beginning to flake off to reveal raw patches of skin. Khenbish launches into action first—they order their apprentice to gather bandages. They browbeat precision and patience into him while they both wrap Enkhtuya’s limbs. Once they finish, Khenbish levels a pointed look at Mongke. He nods in turn and tries to calm his jittery nerves.

Mongke sharpens his focus as he calls forth ice-aspected magicks to his hands. A thin layer of frost coats his palms. He coaxes the magicks into a thinner, pliable form, and leans over Enkhtuya’s prone form. Sweat forms on his brow and back as he searches for the safest places to lay down his magicks. He taps bandages wrapping Enkhtuya’s arms, then her ankles, before collapsing back into his seat as his magicks gently coils around the bandages and soothes her aches.

Khenbish replaces the cooling pad on Enkhtuya’s forehead with a gnarled finger. Their healing magicks emerge in a soft, green light that twines from Khenbish’s arm to Enkhtuya’s forehead. Mongke watches as Khenbish draws out impurities formed from the sickness into a thin thread of volatile, mossy green. Khenbish is careful to manipulate the thread into an empty clay pot they prepared beforehand, before dismissing their healing magicks altogether.

For now, Enkhtuya will have a reprieve from the sickness. But they haven’t gotten anywhere near close to curing it.

In the midst of their troubled ruminating, Khenbish jerks as though struck by something. Mongke quickly turns to his mentor, worried for a second, until he is suddenly seized by the shoulders again and staring into Khenbish’s bright, wild eyes. But the idea dies in an instant, and Khenbish withdraws from Mongke with a strangely thoughtful look. He stops his mentor by curling his hand over their wrist, and urges them with his eyes.

What did they have in mind?

Khenbish is reluctant at first, but then makes an undulating motion with their arm, followed by a handsign formed with their two middle fingers touching their thumb, their first and little fingers pointing upwards like antennae. Mongke has never seen that sign before, but he guesses it represents an animal of some kind. Before he can determine what animal, his mentor immediately shifts into another motion. 

_ There’s some kind of ingredient from an animal in the sea, and it might be of some help _ , Khenbish says through their hands.

Then, suddenly, it clicks in Mongke’s head. He remembers the panacea the foreigners used to peddle in the markets some time ago. One of the ingredients they claimed was from a matured, rare sea creature. Their wares almost started a war among the tribes, so the foreign merchants were banned from selling their strange medicines. Neither he nor his mentor got a chance to test the medicine for themselves, but surely there might be some merit to its rumored miraculous properties.

Mongke surges to his feet and tugs on Khenbish’s hands. They  _ have _ to go gather it. But Khenbish shakes their head and pulls an ugly, constipated face that Mongke immediately associates with the tribal elders. He deflates into his seat, frustrated. These stupid traditions will end up killing a child if they don’t act swiftly.

Khenbish just sends him to the back to replace Enkhtuya’s cooling pad.

As he wrings out the water from the startlingly warm pad, a clammy slaps at his wrist. Mongke jolts and turns to the feeble girl trying to open her eyes.

“H… ba… ba…”

Something within Mongke’s chest twists painfully. A Qestiri doesn’t speak, even from childhood, but even pain can’t be contained for so long. One must cry if they are suffering, just as one must shout if they are joyous.

He cards a gentle hand through her sweaty locks and hums something comforting to her. She relaxes as he continues stroking her hair until her breathing evens out. Mongke tugs down his mask, and breathes ice-aspected magicks into the pad in his free hand before carefully setting it on her forehead.

The space between his shoulder blades itches as though someone is watching him. Khenbish must’ve let the parents in. He hurriedly fixes his mask, settles the furs around Enkhtuya, and vacates his seat to make room.

On his way out, a tall, scarred hunter stops him with a heavy hand on his shoulder. Mongke swallows thickly. This must be one of Enkhtuya’s fathers.

Suddenly the ger feels much too small, too cramped, too stifling. Families always have expectations. What if he can’t save their loved one? How does Khenbish cope with such heavy failures? Is that why shamans are hated—because even  _ they _ can’t cheat death, for all their spiritual and magical prowess?

What if he’s already failed?

Mongke steels himself, and looks up.

There is surprise and gratitude written across the father’s features. With a nod and a squeeze, he lets go of Mongke.

For a moment, he isn’t sure what to do with himself. Then he half-walks, half-runs out of the ger. A blast of hot air hits his face and makes his lips crack. The grass is sharp and crackly under his feet. Tension gathers in the pit of his stomach, then snaps once he realizes that the sluggish heat of summer will only prolong the sickness. He stares down at his hands. Is this all a shaman can do, in the face of the impossible? Pray and hope for the best?

There has to be something better than this.

He marches towards the middle of the Reunion, towards the khan’s ger. Maybe if he can convince the khan, he can go procure the medicine quickly.

* * *

It goes as well as Khenbish expected—horribly. They had to stop Mongke from throwing his mask at the khan’s impassive face.

What did their sprout expect? The khan will not allow an apprentice to leave the Reunion’s premises, especially one like Mongke. His talents in magicks have not gone unnoticed, and any tribe would not hesitate to kidnap new blood for their own gains. It doesn’t help that the Dortharli are beginning to absorb more tribes into their numbers for some upcoming raid against the Oroniri again. They shudder at the memory of the Hotgo’s recent massacre. That new khatun of theirs—Sadu?—is one to be feared, if those craters still dotting the Sea of Blades are any indicators of her strength.

They’re glad Mongke won’t be like her. He isn’t suited for the life of a mage-warrior, especially when he worries so much about keeping his patients alive.

Speaking of whom, he’s still fuming beside them. He has stopped some distance away from the shaman’s ger, fists still clenched at his sides, and breathes hard through his mask. Khenbish stares at their apprentice, willing to wait out his next temper tantrum. 

Instead, Mongke pivots and storms back to his family’s ger.

Khenbish sighs. It’s better this way. The boy needs to cool his head off before he does something stupid. They understand the khan’s concerns—it’s too dangerous to leave the Reunion right now. They’ll have to think of another way to cure the girl.

But as the day trudges by, there’s no sign of Mongke returning to the shaman’s ger. Khenbish doesn’t think overly much on it—he’s done good work in implementing his ice-aspected magicks. All Khenbish needs to do is keep drawing out impurities from Enkhtuya to ensure the sickness doesn’t worsen any further. He’ll be back in the morning and they can draw up another strategy. That silly story can’t be the only method for a cure.

Their work carries on into the night, and Khenbish hobbles back to their own private ger to rest. They sleep dreamlessly, for once.

The next morning, they discover that the sickness has stopped progressing. Good. They can focus more on restocking and maintaining Enkhtuya’s condition until a better solution comes along. It’s worrying that she hasn’t awoken yet, but she will in time. Everything seems alright for the most part. All there’s left to do is wait for their apprentice to come in to begin work in earnest.

Except Mongke’s mother bursts into the shaman’s ger in a frenzy. 

Khenbish’s hackles rise as the huntress stalks towards them, all wild eyes and hunched shoulders. She holds up a mask with shaky hands. For a moment, Khenbish isn’t sure what she means—until they recognize the pattern on the mask. They feel the blood drain from their face.

Mongke is missing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The uneasy peace shatters when they are besieged by a ship that flies sails of black.
> 
> Neither the crew or Mongke are prepared―but the captain keeps a cool head and starts shouting orders as soon as the first rounds of cannon fire smash the very air.
> 
> “Defensive maneuvers! Don’t let these bastards get close!”

Isagi bends low to reach her captain’s eye level.

“Sir, do you think it’s a good idea to bring along, well, _that?_ ” She jabs a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the weird Xaela hanging off the edge of the boat. His arms are stretched out in an attempt to catch a fish flying beside the ship. “He doesn’t even talk.”

Kyouko rolls her eyes, as if Isagi has said something silly.

“Well, he said he needed help. If he can scare off a few cocky Confederates with those fire tricks of his, I’m not gonna complain overmuch.”

“ _Sir._ ”

Kyouko takes another sip from her gourd of sake on the side. “If he bothers you so much, then make him swab the deck.”

Isagi purses her lips.

There’s a muffled cry behind her. She closes her eyes and prays to the heavens for strength. Kami help her if the boy somehow fell off the ship. She slowly turns around to see that, no, he had not fallen off ship, but there’s a large, silvery fish in his hands smacking the ever-living shit out of him. He flails and shrieks as Isagi’s fellow shipmates go about their business, heedless of their guest’s spectacular struggle.

She heaves a deep sigh. She chances a look to her captain, who hurriedly shifts her gaze towards the horizon and keeps a hand steady on the ship’s wheel.

In all honesty, Isagi is tempted to leave the boy so he can suffer for his own stupidity but she pauses. The boy is young and foolish like all young boys are. Hells, she remember dealing with the same flavor of stupid back home. If she doesn’t keep him in line, he might get himself into more trouble.

She can already hear the captain mock her for her sentimentality.

By the time she arrives to help, the Xaelan boy is in the middle of throttling his adversary and failing. Miserably. Why are the oddballs always like this?

She plucks the (surprisingly heavy) glider fish midair and tosses it overboard. The boy, at least, has the courtesy to look sheepish. It helps that she has some Sea Wolf blood and stands a full two fulms taller than him.

She crosses her arms.

“Had some fun there?”

The boy shrinks a little. His only answer is a confused half-shrug of sorts.

Isagi sighs, not unlike an exasperated sibling, and clamps a hand on his shoulder. “In any case, don’t do that again. The cap’n told me to throw you overboard if you cause too much of a fuss before our destination.”

No, the captain didn’t really permit her to do so, but it’s fun seeing the color drain from the boy’s face. He wrings his hands and bows his head in an open show of shame and repentance. It’s a little over-the-top and makes the tips of her ears burn in embarrassment on his behalf, so she knocks him off-balance with a well-placed smack on the back.

“Alright, alright―if you’re that sorry, go clean the poop deck.”

* * *

The crew don’t know what to make of their guest―either they avoid him altogether, or mock his silence by demanding he speak. Most of the time, they don’t give him rations when mealtime rolls around because he doesn’t call out for food.

Mongke is steadfast. There is little difference between these people and the children who made it their life mission to make his life miserable. He knows how they work―they are faced with a novelty, and they want a reaction. He will not give them one. He will not give them a reason to hurt him.

Isagi is, for a lack of a better word, kinder to him than anyone else on the ship. She treats him, more or less, like he’s a part of the crew like anyone else. She makes him fetch things for her, perform chores, or provide entertainment by telling him taller, and taller tales and watching his reactions. In turn, she waves away the more mean-spirited crew members with a well-placed glare and, “Don’t you have better things to do? I’m sure the captain wouldn’t be pleased if she hears you were spending your time picking on someone so small.”

He has to tell himself that this is temporary, and he won’t have to deal with them ever again once his mission is finished. He just needs to hold out for a few more weeks, then he can find another crew to take him in or someone with actual directions.

Mongke spends his time on his own, either meditating or practicing his suturing technique on gliders with a vicious kind of vengeance. (Apparently, no one catches gliders save for a small fishing village on the southern coast of Othard. Very few are willing to eat them because of its greasy meat. It’s a good thing that his mother taught him how to hunt and gather his own food.)

The uneasy peace shatters when they are besieged by a ship that flies sails of black.

Neither the crew or Mongke are prepared―but the captain keeps a cool head and starts shouting orders as soon as the first rounds of cannon fire smash the very air.

“Defensive maneuvers! Don’t let these bastards get close!”

Mongke gets his first taste of battle―and it is nothing like the stories portrayed by seasoned warriors. For one, they don’t talk about the stench of blood. They don’t talk about the grim desperation that saturates the battlefield. And, well, no one in his tribe has ever fought a battle on water.

The pirates have no mercy for their enemies, but the crew are just as vicious in their counterattacks. At one point, Mongke has to duck as both ally and enemy collide in a violent spray of curses and fists.

Someone throws him a strange contraption―he doesn’t have time to think about what he’s holding―and he uses it like a club to swing at one particularly eager pirate. The pirate’s head whips to the side, and Mongke swears he sees a tooth go flying. Someone follows up from the side and tosses the pirate overboard.

He hears a dismayed cry from afar. He turns and sees a bewildered crew member pointing at him. He isn’t sure why they’re yelling at him―until he’s blindsided by a tackle from his left.

Bulky arms trap his torso against his attacker, but Mongke still has his limbs free. He fights the attempts to keep his arms down and kicks out viciously. He gets punched in the face for his efforts. The whiplash contorts his sense of balance so much that he stumbles and falls.

Someone hauls him to his feet, and he fears that another pirate is attacking him. Instead, he hears a voice roar against his horns.

“You’ll have to go through _me_ to get ‘im, you bastards!”

Mongke watches as his savior―a crewmate whose name he never learned―rams his attacker so hard that the pirate slumps into a crumpled heap. She turns around, her teeth bared in a ferocious snarl, and growls, “Who’s next?”

A nearby group of enemies scurry back to their own ship.

He isn’t sure when the fighting stops, just when the captain shouts: “And don’t mess with us again, you motherfuckers!”

The resulting cheer from the battered crew is enough to make the inside of his horns throb painfully.

He doesn’t know when or how he gets drenched from head to toe in seawater, just that the grit of salt sits uncomfortably on his skin and scales. Mongke stares down at the contraption still in his hand. The tip has broken off sometime between the scuffle of bodies, and there are odd blood splatters on the entire thing. He drops it and slump against a barrel. When he breathes deeply, he feels his ribs contract a little too painfully. Mongke glances around, and sees that there are a few people limping, others helping others down gently on the deck.

Someone is barking orders at him to help, and he scrambles to obey. He beelines for the patients who look critical.

The second mate―Gousuke, more bear than man, who speaks of his children like they’re the world’s treasures―groans as Mongke carefully cradles his bandaged head. The right side of his face is stained in red.

Back in the Steppe, men would sometimes return with bodies so broken that no healer could help them. They often withdrew into themselves, becoming a shadow of the warriors they once were. The few who refused to let themselves be defined by their injuries either met an early death in their recklessness, or turned more vicious. Sometimes, the vicious ones lash out at their loved ones. To raise a hand against those of your own blood and flesh in violence is considered one of the greatest sins in the Qestir tribe.

Mongke will not let any of that happen to Gousuke. There are enough violent fathers on this earth. He breathes deeply, closes his eyes, then becomes still.

Gousuke’s aether flutters erratically under his hands. Mongke concentrates on coaxing the air into white magicks―just like Khenbish taught him. Like water, it molds easily, but it has a will of its own like fire. Luckily, Mongke has more than enough experience with corralling unruly forces into cooperating.

This is where the pain comes in.

He grits his teeth against the slow burn in his veins as he keeps a tight control over his aether as he transforms the wind into a healing force. Mongke opens his eyes and carefully peels off the bandages. Blood oozes freely and Gousuke begins groaning anew.

Mongke places a hand over Gousuke’s ruined eye, and watches as blood starts to clot and scab under his glowing palm. When the last of the wound is sealed, he pulls his bloodied palm away and reaches for a clean roll of bandages and rewraps Gousuke’s head.

A large hand covers his own. He looks up to see Gousuke blinking at him wearily from his lone eye.

“Thank you, son,” he rumbles, then closes his eye, his large hand falling away to rest on his barrel of a chest. Mongke blinks hard, scrubs at his eyes furiously with a free arm, then finishes up.

There are at least seven more people to tend to. Mongke feels like his entire body is made of lead, his limbs already weak with exhaustion, but he has a job to do.

He stops two more cases of severe bleeding (By the end of it, Mongke resorts to tearing strips off his spare binder for bandages), stitches up a woman’s side (“It’s a fuckin’ miracle you didn’t die like a fool!” Hana bellows, holding her partner’s hand in a pale-knuckled grip. Yorumi just flashes a strained, cheeky smile. “I didn’t want to lose you.” Mongke’s cheeks burn as he focuses even more on the stitching. He is an outsider intruding on a private moment between two lovers), and manages to keep another crew member from going into shock (His heart thunders between his horns as he dutifully kept up chest compressions. Either by Nhaama’s will or some other freakish divine force, Wakagumo coughs to life. Mongke directs the others to keep Wakagumo warm until he can come back to get Wakagumo hydrated properly).

He is in the middle of wrapping someone’s arm when someone touches his elbow. He turns around, and sees no one, until someone clears their throat. Mongke looks down to find the captain. She stares at him with a strange look.

“You look like hell, kid.” she says, by way of greeting. She jabs a thumb over her shoulder. “Go on and rest up―you’ve done enough for my crew. I’ll take it from here.”

For a moment, Mongke fears that he has failed somehow. It must show on his face, because the captain snorts.

“You’re not in trouble, you dolt. This is me _thanking_ you.”

He blinks hard. What? Didn’t these people hate him? Why is the captain thanking him for doing the bare minimum? He should be doing more. He still hasn’t perfected his suturing, so he needs to go back and double check everyone in case their stitches have broken. They don’t even have enough bandages or herbal remedies to go around.

But he can’t give voice to these concerns, because to speak is to lie. He keeps his silence. He swallows back the things he wants to ask the captain (does she even know how to use a fish bone needle? How to strengthen and use hemp for thread?) and looks at his feet. The person next to him rolls their eyes.

“C’mon, stop holding my hand. I’ll be fine.”

He snaps his head towards Sora in alarm. Their grin is lopsided and dimpled. He fights down the rising blush, and glances at their hand. Once, Khenbish told him that the bones in the hands and toes are more fragile than other bones in the body. Sora broke at least a few fingers when they punched a pirate so hard that the pirate toppled backwards over the ship’s railing into the unforgiving sea below. Mongke has only finished wrapping their bloodied knuckles.

He turns uncertain eyes between Sora and the captain. Kyouko raises an eyebrow in reply.

Mongke gets up―and crumples into a heap with stars in his eyes.

* * *

He wakes up feeling like shit.

Mongke groans. He glances over to find Isagi at his bedside, her mouth set into an unhappy line and her arms crossed over her chest. Luckily, Isagi must be resting her eyes; otherwise, her imminent glare will kill him on the spot. He’s resigned to staring at the ceiling and stewing in his thoughts. He shouldn’t have passed out like that. What would the others say? He still hasn’t checked in on everyone’s injuries. There must be more he can do.

“So, you’re awake.”

Mongke can’t find it in himself to flinch at the sound of Isagi’s stern voice. He only fractionally moves his head to let her know he’s listening. She heaves a deep sigh before resting a hand over his forehead, then covers his eyes. Her fingers are clammy against his skin. He doesn’t have the strength to pull her hand away.

“You’re an absolute idiot, you know that?” Isagi mutters, her voice cracking on every other word.

He freezes, not even daring to breathe. What do you do when a woman is crying? He can’t exactly do much of anything with the state he’s in right now. He can’t even break his silence. Mongke opens and closes his mouth behind his mask, unsure.

“You’re so much like him.” The words blur together, like she’s trying to push them out of her chest in a single breath. “You’re just like my stupid little brother.”

Mongke feels his eyebrows rise to his hairline. He keeps his silence, but the question burns in his head: _what happened to your brother to make you sound so fragile?_ Only, he isn’t sure if he wants to know.

Isagi must be a silent crier, because the only indication of her tears is a loud, wet sniff and a waver in her voice. “He was so eager to be a hero. He wanted to prove himself to the world for some dumb reason. I kept telling him he was fine the way he was, and the little brat kept looking for trouble…”

 _Was_. People only say that about another person if they died, were captured, or disowned. He tries not to think too hard on what that means for Isagi.

She trails off, and Mongke can imagine her staring into space like those warriors who came home broken beyond repair. He swallows down the rising dread at the thought. Isagi always seemed so sure of herself, so unmovable. To hear her voice shrink in on itself from grief makes his chest painfully tight. He can’t imagine losing a sibling―he thinks of Enkhtuya and her small, shivering form. He can’t imagine laying her to rest. She is far too young.

He breathes deeply. He will not let that happen.

Mongke struggles to lift a hand, but he manages to place one over Isagi’s and hopes that she’ll understand. He won’t inflict that kind of pain on her a second time.

Isagi covers his hand with her own. She is warm. Her voice is steady when she says, “Don’t be an idiot.”

He doesn’t look at her when he nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried something new with my writing style but im not sure. lmk what you guys think!
> 
> 2/28/2020: i wasn't really happy with the lack of actual swashbuckling, so i added some


End file.
